My Name Is Mary Sutter Part 7

They mostly tried to find food and wondered why the army had sent them out of the city without even a thought to their nourishment. They ate what they could gather from the nearby farms or foraged from the hills, the best being the hogs that wandered through the newly cleared forests, confused, easily caught. The men urinated and defecated in camp and failed to build sinks. They drank from the streams that the neighboring fort used as its privy. They did not wash. They slept without blankets upon the impervious Virginia clay. When it rained, tributaries of mud coursed through the camp, bringing with it a plague of enteric disease that rendered James Blevens, miserably, a privy constable.

The doctor was seldom agitated, except when the lack of sanitation infuriated him. He hurtled through the camp, surly at the state of the streets and his need to monitor them, ordering men to pour lime into the privy trenches and to shovel dirt upon garbage piles humming with flies.

On a day in early June, a Sanitary Commission officer visited the camp. Lincoln had called the group, formed by women but led by Frederick Law Olmsted, the fifth wheel to the coach and complained that the army already had a medical department. Nonetheless, he appointed them "to inquire into the subjects of diet, clothing, cooks, camping grounds, in fact everything connected with the prevention of disease among volunteer soldiers not accustomed to the rigid regulations of the regular troops." This was now read to James by the inspector, who peered over the top of his gla.s.ses with a seriousness that he clearly felt befitted the gravity of his dull tedium. James had stopped listening.

They sat on chairs at the door to Colonel Townsend's shack, the most palatial of all the camp abodes-shanties built from sc.r.a.p branches and bark-as the usual uproar of shouts and swearing and fights careened up and down the mostly orderly lines of lean-tos.

Are the men required to bathe under the eye of an officer? "Yes."

James refused to observe the men bathing. He thought the sanitary officer could detect this lie, though the man continued to read questions from his form in a measured, nonjudgmental fashion, writing down the answers with a thick-nibbed pen that he dipped into a bottle of ink set precariously on the ground.

If so, how often each man? "Regularly." (Another lie.) Does each man (as a rule) wash his head, neck, and feet once a day?

James gazed mournfully at the heat rising in dust clouds off the baked Virginia clay. Spring in Virginia was an oven compared to Albany. "Undoubtedly."

Are the men infected with vermin? "Yes."

If so, has any application been made to remove them? "Yes."

The inspector did not ask if James had been successful. No one had been successful. Carbolic acid, turpentine, nothing worked. Fort Albany was, in fact, an encampment of lice in which men were allowed to live.

Do the men void urine within their own camp? "Yes."

(Bland, noncommittal gaze from the officer. What had he seen in other camps?) At night? "Yes."

In the day? "Yes."

There was the crack of an axe against a tree. More Virginia trees falling to the Federals, all that the men of Albany had been able to conquer of Rebel territory. In their single distinguishing moment, two of their regiment on picket duty in May at the Long Bridge had arrested a Rebel sneaking across to Washington City, but other than that, soldiering for the men of the 25th Regiment had consisted of construction and endurance. It was, however, a matter of pride to the regiment that their fortification, one of a dozen forts of earthen walls and ramparts on the Arlington Heights, guarded the Columbia Turnpike, the main road that led to Washington City, two miles away.

On and on the sanitary officer read: Does each soldier have a pair of trousers? Do they as a whole take pride in their camp? Do you observe odors of decay within the camp? Does the surgeon make a daily inspection of the camp, with respect to cleanliness? How many paces from the body of the camp is the privy? Is the privy trench provided with a sitting rail?

James had dug a private privy nearby in the disappearing woods. He had gone there the other morning only to discover the forest had been clear-cut the previous day.

Is any officer required to examine and taste the food of the men before it is served at any meal, or is this done generally by the captains or other officers, either by order or voluntarily?

James Blevens's skin had been burned red by his long days outside, his lips blistered and his neck rendered crimson. He had lost, he estimated, perhaps a dozen pounds. He was a picture of the life they were all leading. Soldiers were starving. When they did get rations, most often it was beans and flour, which they fashioned into cakes they fried in lard rendered from the hogs they shot.

"The officers test only the potatoes and caviar. For the rest the men are on their own, although we do serve high tea at four with crumpets and scones."

(Small twitch of left eye, barely distinguishable.) Is there a regimental band?

Memories of Tweddle Hall surfaced. An orchestra. And once, Jenny Lind, her voice soaring above the crepe and crinolines of the beautiful women in attendance. James Blevens had not seen a woman in a month and a half.

"No, no band."

The inspector wrinkled his nose. "You do understand the necessity of amus.e.m.e.nts for the men?"

James said that there was nothing amusing about necessity.

Is there much intoxication?

"Some." James thrice had taken up pen and paper to write to Washington, then abandoned the prospect. Who would he tell? Released from the spell of decency, nearly every soldier had at least dabbled in the general revelry of the most untamed troops: liquor purchased from privateers who had set up shop in shacks just off the fort's grounds; women obtained from the shanties of Swampdoodle, the quagmire village of lawlessness adjacent to the Capitol. Already he had seen three cases of gonorrhea.

What are the prevailing diseases? (Pen into mouth while awaiting answer to question. Nothing unsanitary about that.) "Malaria. Typhoid."

James held two sick calls each day: one at seven in the morning, after drill, and the other at seven in the evening. So far, he had seen measles, mumps, scarlet fever, colds, bronchitis, and pneumonia. He had sent men to hospital with icterus, constipation, but mostly with diarrhea. The entire decamped city of Albany was ill with it. In fact, the entire Union army was. He often wondered whether anybody would ever suffer anything requiring surgery, and if they did, what he would do. He had nothing beside the instruments he had brought with him. Not plaster, morphia, gauze, ether, chloroform, nor charcoal either; the paucity alarmed. But nary a shot had been fired during their tenure. His idle instruments daily mocked him from inside their wooden case.

Is there a moderate supply of medicines?

"I believe I just answered that."

Are the men required to regularly wash their underclothing?

A bout of raucous laughter from a nearby fire. Dinner today appeared to be griddlecakes.

"Perhaps by their mothers."

(A stern and altogether earnest gaze.) "Dr. Blevens, you are their mother in absentia."

"I am in desperate peril if I am now a woman. They are in scarce supply."

The inspector shifted on his seat. He could be a preacher from the depth of his blush.

"There are 180 questions on this form and I still have to get to Fort Runyon today."

"From time to time I do observe the men nude, swishing their clothes in the stream that runs at the base of the hill. You understand, I do not encourage it, as it is the same stream from which we get our drinking water." Dr. Blevens took unreasoned pleasure from the expression on the inspector's face, as the inspector had, in fact, quenched his thirst at that very stream upon his arrival that morning.

(An intake of breath.) Is there a regimental library?

"I did try to have the contents of the Library of Congress transported here for our use, but I was unsuccessful."

"Now you are just being sarcastic."

"Who wrote this form?"

(Deep sigh.) Are the common military signs of discipline punctiliously enforced or practiced, as the salute between men and officers?

"You do understand that two months ago these men were plowing fields?"

"I will take that as a no."

The inspector took the rest of James's comments as a no also, except when he asked the final question: Does the surgeon understand that he is responsible for all conditions of the camp or regiment unfavorable to health, unless he has warned the commanding officer of them?

James Blevens, who had come to conquer bullet holes and shattered limbs, but was instead camp supervisor of hygiene and sewerage, and also, apparently, military salutations, musicianship, literacy, and gastronomy, sighed and said, "The surgeon does."

Chapter Nine.

The Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Station in Washington City squatted mere steps from the Capitol building, but the shabby wooden structure teemed with hustlers and pickpockets. The trip from Albany had taken Mary more than thirty hours. She had grown confused at the pier in Manhattan City until a hack driver helped her find the ferry to Jersey City. The train had overnighted at the depot in Philadelphia, and Mary had had to sleep sitting up in her seat. Near Baltimore, the train had slowed and stopped so that the engineer could walk the tracks ahead to make certain the rails had not been torn up. As Mary disembarked, she thought that no delivery she had ever attended had been as exhausting as sitting in that humid train car, en route to the rest of her life. Now moist heat billowed through the depot doors left open to the street; a horde of people, horses, and carriages crowded a wide, circling avenue. Mary gathered herself. Just one more hurdle, she thought, and then she would be there. She elbowed through the crowd and hailed a hack from the line of cabs and directed its driver to take her to the corner of New York Avenue and 14th Street.

The capital was unexpectedly seedy, a cross between a swamp and Versailles. Rare islands of marbled grace reared up between linked villages of squatting shanties, vacant lots, rollicking taverns, and slovenly grocers. Squalid creeks and deep gutters formed moats around the fine and unsightly both. Even the receding Capitol building itself, viewed as Mary twisted her head in search of something to admire, disappointed. Under a pale sky blunted by heat, it towered upon its hill, a skeletal dome awaiting marble blocks, looking like the Union itself, gutted and uncertain. As the hack traversed a long angled avenue of broken cobbles and rutted tracks, the driver became a tour guide: here is this, here is that. The Saint Charles Hotel. City Hall. In between, muddy hog wallows and seedy ruin. The avenue made a turn: here is the Treasury, here is the Mansion. Set behind an iron railing, the president's house needed a new coat of paint and a gardener.

"That will be a quarter dollar. It costs more for the tour," the hack driver said, grinning, pleased with his larceny when he stopped a few blocks later at a row of new town houses on a street like Dove Street, with slate sidewalks and stone stairs and windowsills of granite. Mary knew it was more than she should have paid, but the similarity to home boded well and so she handed over the exorbitant fare, glad to finally have reached her destination.

The maid who answered the door was crisply capped and insolently aired and she sniffed as she inspected Mary's travel-stained clothes. Mary touched her hand to her hair, twisted into wildness by the humidity. It occurred to her that she should have taken a room at a hotel and made an appointment, but it was too late now.

"I'm here to see Miss Dix."

"Miss Dix is not seeing anyone today," the maid said.

"But I've come a long way-"

The maid shut the door. She was worse even than the hissing clerk at Albany Medical College, who had at least received Mary's initial visits with amused courtesy. Mary turned on the stoop, hoping that the hack was still at the curbside, but he had gone, and the long street now looked unwelcoming. She had just started down the stairs when the door reopened and the maid said, "Follow me."

Dorothea Dix was sitting in a low armchair in the bay window of her town house. Though it was warm, no one could accuse this woman of a lack of decorum or of surrendering standards to the Washington swelter. She wore a black, long-sleeved, high-collared dress fastened with a white rosette. Her black hair was parted in the middle and collected in a low bun at her neck. She had been shuffling papers, but she extended a long, bony hand and waved Mary in.

"How do you do? I am Miss Dorothea Dix." She said her name with a strong emphasis on the vowels, as if she were p.r.o.nouncing it carefully for someone to get the spelling right. "Please sit down. You came, I see, from the train?"

Mary managed a wan smile to cover her embarra.s.sment. "Please forgive me. Forgive my appearance," she said. She stumbled over her words, her fatigue conspiring with the heat. She thought how she must appear, and fought for composure. "Perhaps I should have engaged a hotel," she said. She settled into a velvet armchair next to Miss Dix, acutely conscious of the dirt and perspiration that sullied her dress. It did not help that a forest of potted ferns emanated a mossy scent that somehow intensified the oppressive heat. Nor did it help that she was now two days into her journey, a trip she had thought would last fourteen hours at the most. Not a drop of sweat, however, glistened on Miss Dix's high forehead.

"I brought them with me," Miss Dix said, referring to the armchairs. "You cannot buy anything in Washington to compare."

They were as alike as women could be. Each sat with her hands folded, ankles crossed, demonstrating a certain discipline about backs not touching the seat. One woman was small, one was large. Neither was beautiful to look at. The world would have looked at them and thought, Odd.

Miss Dix studied her guest. She appeared to be in that category of women who, by their lack of aesthetic appeal, appeared ageless and would remain so for the rest of their lives, while the fairer of their s.e.x would wilt into decay. Miss Dix shifted her pile of papers with a noncommittal nod of her head and drew out a blank sheet. Dipped pen in hand, she said, "Your name?"

"Mary Sutter."

"May I see your letters of recommendation?"

"I have none," Mary said.

Miss Dix laid down her pen. This woman was her first applicant, and she had no idea what to do now that the woman didn't have references. Character was everything. A letter from home, preferably written by a minister or a church deacon, would back up her judgment and silence her critics. She wanted no more visits from the senator. And the truth was, she'd been wrong about people before. She still suffered haunting memories of the one man about whom she'd been most wrong. Her engagement to Edward Bangs had been brief. She frequently wondered what would have become of her had they married. Sidelined, strapped to a house and children. Certainly she would not be here, indecisive herself, wheedling about references. "You wish to work in the army as a nurse?"

"I do."

"And on what basis am I to hire you if you do not provide me with letters? These are essential. Surely you know this."

"I have none," Mary said. She'd been in such a hurry to leave Albany that somehow the issue of references had seemed an unnecessary impediment to her escape. "But I am very qualified."

"I published that circular two days ago, Miss Sutter. You came very quickly. I did expect that you would send references first. I specifically stated that references were required."

"I came out of urgency," Mary said.

Miss Dix understood that sense of urgency. She had felt it herself, carried away on a wave of antic.i.p.ation not unlike the men's eagerness for guns and battle. At sixty, Miss Dix felt as if she knew things that no one else knew, cared about things that no one else did. This understanding was both a blessing and a curse. She had seen the worst that one human being could do to another. The insane handcuffed to bedrails, fed almost nothing. Men accused of crimes kept in filth for days, dying for lack of water. She entirely agreed with Miss Nightingale that improved sanitary conditions for the sick would improve this war for everyone, if war could ever be improved. Miss Dix had felt it so keenly that she had talked her way right into this moment: choosing the first nurse for hospitals that were already burgeoning with the sick. They had already opened so many. Every public building in Washington, it seemed, was overflowing with men suffering from measles, mumps, and dysentery.

"Miss Sutter. I imagine there will be many more applicants who will conceal from me their true reasons for their desire to become a nurse. Some will be chasing their beaux. Is this your sense of urgency?"

How could Mary explain what she wanted? That she had come to be a surgeon? Indeed, in the thirty-six hours that she had been traveling, she had begun to question her own reasons for running here. She had a feeling Miss Dix wouldn't understand any of it.

"I am well acquainted with the sick room," Mary began. "I am a midwife. I have delivered over fifty babies." Mary almost added, A significant number given my age, but age was another of Miss Dix's rigid requirements, and she did not wish to give this woman another reason to dismiss her.

"There will be cleaning and laundry and cooking," Miss Dix said. "Distasteful and difficult work which must be borne without complaint and will be best performed by women who do not think they are above other nurses because they have more experience." Miss Dix's voice, while sharp, had an acuity that made it seem as if she was on the verge of dismissing Mary outright.

"You misunderstand me. I would do anything required of me," Mary said.

"In my circular, I also specified a certain age, which you obviously have not yet reached. I'm afraid, Miss Sutter, that you have traveled to Washington for nothing."

No marble hall, no muttering clerk, nothing but a diminutive sixty-year-old woman in a black frock.

"If we had met in the street, you would have thought me thirty," Mary said.

"I have established strict rules for a reason, Miss Sutter. Age has a way of molding a person that will be advantageous in the extreme circ.u.mstances in which my nurses will find themselves."

"But I have come all the way from Albany. Surely the distance traveled is worth consideration."

"The surgeons are already furious. They say no woman will pa.s.s the doors of any army hospital. I have battles ahead, and I do not wish to have to defend any youthful indiscretions."

"But I am qualified," Mary said.

"Miss Sutter, no man in the army is going to have a baby." Logic of a specific, narrow kind. Aren't deliveries enough for you? And there was the matter of the expectant Jenny. Somehow, it was more than Mary could bear. Don't be foolish, she told herself. You did not flee, you advanced.

Both women said, "I need-" and stopped. The maid was intruding with the tea tray. She was pleased to see Miss Dix in an att.i.tude of refusal, her bothersome guest on edge. The maid took too much time arranging the milk and sugar. Miss Dix waved an impatient wrist, and the gleeful maid floated away with an air of victory.

Miss Dix said, "I need to establish precedent."

Miss Sutter said, "I need to stay."

Miss Dix recognized her twin in Miss Sutter, but instinctively, perversely, pressed for authority more than affinity, as siblings sometimes do. The elder, to the younger: "You do not understand what will be asked of you."

"I am not here on a whim, Miss Dix."

Miss Dix opened her hands. She was confident, as she would never again be, in her judgment. Within days, she would be besieged by hundreds of young women. But at this moment, she pictured the future in a certain way and was confident she could control it. "You shouldn't have gone to the trouble of coming."

"Yes, coming here was trouble. It was a great deal of trouble." Mary, unfurling. Any member of her family would have recognized the signs. A certain straightening of the spine, the impression of a gathering storm. All sense of supplication evaporating, though her next utterance did resemble a question. "May I ask? Is it true that you are a friend of Miss Nightingale's?"

Miss Dix preened, ashamed and delighted that the war had brought her such quick celebrity. "I am greatly pleased to be acquainted with Miss Nightingale. I made a visit to Europe in order to meet her."

"Would you have considered Miss Nightingale incapable of her work in the Crimea before she went, merely because she was young?"

In all of Miss Dix's preparations, she had pictured complaisant, polite women of a certain age, widows perhaps, seeking to devote themselves to the dear boys. Dependent upon her for courage. Instead, she found insolence. Youth. "When Miss Nightingale went to the Crimea, she was thirty-four years old."

"But I believe she was twenty-four when she began nursing."